


Late

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I really am sorry, I wasn't kidding when I said Major Character Death, I'm Sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?" "Late."<br/>Sherlock arrives too late</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late

So small.  
That single thought filled Sherlock's mind as he dropped to his knees. The ground beneath him was wet and slippery. Slippery with what? Sherlock knew, but didn't allow himself to think about it. His entire focus was on the dark shape lying before him. So small. Strange how John's personality had grown to replace the physical form. But now that the personality had gone, the body was all that remained. And it was small. John had never seemed that small in life.   
Sherlock stared at his friend, his only friend, drinking in every last detail. He needed to do it, to commit it all to memory.   
The detective's eyes flickered shut, entering his mind palace. The white hallways of thought were familiar, but there was a new door at the end of the corridor. On the front was painted a single word.  
John.  
He stepped inside and almost at once he stumbled from the force of his thoughts. Words darted through the air like fish, some gently caressing his face and arms while others stabbed at his skin. Only a few of the words registered. Safety. Strength. Comfort. Brave. Friend.  
There was something else, too. Something unusual. In every other room the words were simple, black and white, but here the air was warm and tinted faintly orange. Emotion. The feeling John gave him was orange.  
"Interesting. I'll have to conduct an experiment on that. John, I-" He stopped, eyes springing open. He took in the body of his friend again, a hard lump choking him.   
"John," he whispered. He picked up the dark shape of what was once his friend, climbing unsteadily to his feet. Sherlock's foot slipped and he almost fell, but he was determined to do this himself. Carefully, cradling John's body like it was the most precious thing in the world, he carried the doctor home.

Lestrade was waiting for him outside the flat.  
"And where have you been? I've been- bloody hell!"  
His gaze was fixed on John. He ran over to Sherlock, helping him bear the weight.  
"What happened? Is he-?"  
"No. No, he- he's dead."  
"Shit."  
"I need to get him inside. Please!"  
Nodding, Lestrade carefully carried John's body up the stairs. They laid him on his bed, the sheets already beginning to stain dark red.   
"What do we do now?"  
"I don't know."  
"What do you mean?"  
"I mean, Lestrade, that I do not know what to do! Do I need to spell it out?" Sherlock yelled, turning to Lestrade. The policeman took a step back, worried at the transformation that he saw. Sherlock was always so calm, so controlled, that this could only mean danger.  
"Look, I didn't-"  
"Remember what I was like before I met John? Angry all the time, unable to understand the very concept of other people having emotions? He changed me, Lestrade, and I have no desire to go back!"  
Sherlock was crying, crying genuine tears for the first time in years, and still he was shouting.  
"I don't know any more! I- I don't-" he stopped, sitting down beside John- beside the body. That's what death does, he thought grimly. Changes you from a "him" to an "it". Once the person is gone, what's left?  
He took hold of its hand and then lightly brushed its hair from its unseeing eyes.  
"John," he murmured one last time. "Please forgive me."


End file.
